


If I Die It's For You

by saiyanshewolf (gossamerstarsxx)



Series: Shot Through the Heart [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Children, Crying, Depression, Family, Family Feels, Feels, Hurt, Implied Relationships, Introspection, Letters, Men Crying, Mental Health Issues, Non-Chronological, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Other, Pain, Pre-Relationship, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 08:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13477497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gossamerstarsxx/pseuds/saiyanshewolf
Summary: MacCready misses his son.





	If I Die It's For You

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of folks’ biggest issue with MacCready’s storyline seems to hinge on Duncan; why MacCready is in the Commonwealth instead of with his son, how long has he been there, who did he leave Duncan with, etc. Through the magic of fanfiction, I have solved this problem. For myself, anyway. I don't actually know how well it lines up with canon, but if I cared much about canon I wouldn't have spent the past twelve years writing fanfiction on the internet.
> 
>  **Featuring** : A letter from Arya, my Lone Wanderer; a letter from Duncan; a note from Arcade Gannon; mentions of my Courier Kieran, and Arya's husband Butch DeLoria; my personal headcanons about food in the wasteland; my utter ignorance as to how five year old children in a post-apocalyptic setting might write.
> 
>  **Warnings** : Depression, self-loathing, a little gore, possibly feels (I don't have kids but I do have a nephew I love very much).
> 
> The title is from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i4ceIHBjozs).

Winlock and Barnes are running him ragged.

Hancock finally kicks them out of Goodneighbor, and MacCready isn't sure if it's because the good mayor likes him or because they were driving down sales at the Third Rail. He appreciates it either way, but they still send their lackeys, and Hancock can't vet every single scumbag that walks through the door. It would defeat the whole purpose of Goodneighbor.

When MacCready wakes up in his room at the Rexford to find the severed head of a feral ghoul perched on the nightstand, he comes close to giving up. It's been a little over a year since he could last sleep without keeping one eye open, but Winlock and Barnes have stepped up their game in the past few months. It hadn't been as much of an issue while he was traveling with Antha, but now that he's back in Goodneighbor the harassment has recommenced with interest. Gunner privates claiming to be on leave show up at the Third Rail almost every night, but Winlock and Barnes are clever - they never send the same grunts twice. They have followed him to the Rexford and cornered him in alleyways; one had pulled a knife on him, but the Neighborhood Watch took him out before it found its way between MacCready's ribs. They have broken into his room at least twice.

 _Three times, now,_ he thinks, gazing at the rotting, radioactive face on his nightstand. _Christ, why didn't they go ahead and kill me?_

The way he feels this morning, death would be a kindness. As the harassment gets worse, so do his hangovers. Drinking has become the only way he can sleep, but it's getting to the point of sleep that's the problem. Ham has thrown him in the Old State House cell three times since Antha left - and getting locked up for 'drunk and disorderly' in Goodneighbor is saying something.

MacCready sighs and scrubs his hands over his face, considering whether he should accept Hancock's offer of Med-X. At least that way he wouldn't make life hard for anyone else before he passed out. 

Holding his breath, he pulls the ragged cover off his pillow, tosses the ghoul head inside, and ties it shut. Instead of standing up to get dressed and dispose of it, however, he finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, unable to move, as if that single act had drained every ounce of his energy.

_They know._

MacCready doesn't know how, but the how doesn't matter. Winlock and Barnes know about Lucy. They must. Otherwise he would have woken up with something else on his nightstand, something easier to kill, but they had decapitated the ghoul instead of shooting it in the head, and they had done so on purpose. The Gunners didn't bother getting up close and personal unless they had a message to send. His only consolation is that they can't hurt Duncan - their reach isn't that long.

But him? They can hurt him, all right. They're doing everything in their power to hurt him, short of provoking open conflict with all of Goodneighbor.

_I'm so fucking tired._

How long he sits there with his head in his hands, trying and failing to summon the energy to move, MacCready has no idea. By the time someone knocks on his door the sun is high in the sky, and still he struggles to make himself say _Come in._

"Caravan got in this morning," Daisy says as she opens the door. "You okay? You're usually there first thing to check."

"Late night." MacCready pushes his messy bed-hair back from his forehead. "Anything?"

"Whole package," Daisy answers, and holds out a box wrapped in layers of ragged newspaper. "And speaking of, what the hell is that?"

"Present from the Gunners," he answers. "I'll get rid of it later."

"No, I'll do it." Daisy picks it up by the knot, holding it out in front of herself; if she had a nose, it would be wrinkled in disgust. "Hope it's all good news, MacCready."

"Yeah," he mumbles. "Yeah, me too."

The door clicks shut behind her. MacCready considers getting up to lock it, then remembers it hadn't done him much good the night before.

_That or I was too drunk to remember to lock the damn thing at all._

He turns his attention to the package. After being in the Commonwealth for so long, it is strange to see copies of the Capital Post again. Strips of duct tape secure the layers of newspaper, and written across the top in black block letters is  **ROBERT JOSEPH MACCREADY - GOODNEIGHBOR - COMMONWEALTH.**

As he reaches under the edge of the mattress for his combat knife, his hands shake. Mail from the Capital always makes him nervous, but packages are worse. Every single time one arrives his mind launches into overdrive, until he convinces himself that the package is a death knell, nothing but a letter of condolence inside a box of Duncan's things.

With a deep, trembling breath, he slices through layers of newspaper and tape and tosses them to the floor. The box itself is hard blue plastic with a faded yellow logo across the top that reads VAULT 101, and the sight of it makes MacCready laugh despite his own anxiety. Every package he receives from the Capital comes in one of these boxes, and he knows for a fact that the boxes are stolen; soon no one in Vault 101 will have anywhere to store their things.

Steeling himself, MacCready pops off the lid; a moment later he breathes a sigh of relief and sets it to the side.

 _Still alive,_ he thinks, picking up a folded sheet of paper with a 1 scribbled in the corner. _Duncan's still alive._

He opens Arya's letter.

> _Hey, Assface._
> 
> _Hope the Commonwealth is treating you right. We got your last package just fine, every cap accounted for, so don't stress. Even though I don't know why you keep sending caps. I've told you before that me and Butch have got this covered. Kieran doesn't even charge for the meds, just what he needs to grease some palms between here and the Mojave, and the day Butch and I can't shoot straight enough to make fucking bribe money is the day we retire._
> 
> _But I'll get to the point._
> 
> _The drug Arcade came up with is still helping, but it's requiring higher and higher doses. Arc says it's nothing to worry about just yet, though. He thinks we can get another year out of it, more if we're lucky, and it's still an improvement over that first year when everything was so touch and go. Figured you'd want to know._
> 
> _Duncan is hanging in there. He's a tough little kid. Guess who that reminds me of? Minus the swearing, at least. He spends a lot of time reading and has gone through all the picture books we've got like five times over. Butch has started writing little stories for him to read. The hero is this kid named Mungo who lives in a cave with a bunch of other kids and protects them from bad stuff. Duncan loves them._
> 
> _When he's having a good day he likes being outside. He gets tired pretty quick, but I caught him doing finger-guns and pretending to look through a scope down his arm. He really wants to learn how to shoot, but we're leaving that up to you._
> 
> _Yes, he still remembers you. Yes, I think he misses you. I know he was just three when you left, but I still think he misses you. He likes to ask us what we think you would do, what we think you would say, stuff like that. We try to balance our answers between 'honest' and 'appropriate for children.' Not always easy. He definitely loves you (he told me no less than ten times to make sure you knew)._
> 
> _He was having a good day when I was putting this together, so he wrote you his own little letter. His handwriting isn't great and he's still figuring out the spelling thing (probably doesn't help that Butch can't spell for shit, now that I think about it) but it should still be legible. He made me swear not to read it so I have no idea what it says, but I'm sure you're gonna cry._
> 
> _Now for the stuff you don't like:_
> 
> _Butch and I have to head into the Wasteland for a while with some friends of ours. Raiders are getting ballsy again and we can't have that. I know you get freaked out whenever Butch and I leave Duncan with Kieran and Arcade, since you've never met them, but like I tell you every time, Duncan couldn't be in better hands. You know it's because of Arc and his research that we've been able to keep Duncan going for this long. He's still working on finding a cure, but in the meantime what he's come up with is keeping the kid's head above water. He and Kieran brought a pretty big stock of it with them, and it should be enough to last through the end of the year - long enough for them to make the trek to the Mojave and back again after Butch and I finish our rounds through the Capital._
> 
> _Duncan's excited about it because Arcade said he'd teach him to play chess, and because Kieran brought his entire comic book collection with him (I know you're jealous)._
> 
> _More stuff you don't like:_
> 
> _We're sending you some presents because we like you and if you bitch about expenses I'll make you eat all these damn caps you keep sending us, so don't even bother (seriously, they're in a lunchbox in Duncan's bedroom, just sitting there, and Butch says if you send any more he's gonna use them to get a kid sized Tunnel Snakes jacket made)._
> 
> _So use those caps to do something for yourself, okay? Upgrade your sniper rifle. Get some armor. Buy a drink for a pretty lady. Or a handsome dude. Or an attractive Ghoul, or a particularly shiny robot, I don't fucking know. Just do something nice for yourself, okay? It's been three years since you left, four since Lucy. She would want you to help Duncan, yes, but she would also want you to be happy. We want you to be happy._
> 
> _Keep your head up, kid._
> 
> _Love, Arya DeLoria_

MacCready shakes his head and reads the letter over again, grinning even has he blinks back tears. He has no blood siblings, but he has always imagined that having a big sister must be a lot like having an Arya DeLoria. Though the information about higher doses is unnerving, it is a comfort to know that Duncan is still doing as well as he can. Folding up Arya's letter, he tucks it into one of the inside pockets of his duster with the rest and picks up the three folded sheets of notepaper that must be Duncan's.

 _When I left he could barely speak in complete sentences,_ he thinks, wiping his eyes against his shoulder. _Now he can write._

The thought is bittersweet and overwhelming, and for a moment, MacCready - both homesick and heartsick - can't see to read for crying. He sets the pages to the side and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, choking back each sob before it can wrench out of his throat; the walls of the Rexford are thin.

After he gets ahold of himself, he wipes his eyes, unfolds the notepaper, and starts reading.

> _HI DADDY!!_
> 
> _I am feling mostly ok i am tired alot sumtimes the blu spots com back an it herts but I am not blu al the time or tired. Ant A an Unkl B are takin good ~~kar~~ care of me an have  fri frends that help to like ~~Arke~~ ~~Arkad~~ Arkayd an Keeren so I have lots of peeple to take ~~ker~~ care of me an will be ok until you can come bak with medisin but I no it is hard to get medisin cuz I herd Ant A cry cuz yu got hert tryin to get it for me an she said ferel goolz hert yu but not to me I was not ~~sopo~~ ~~spos~~ sopost to heer so dont be mad at her or me cuz I did not meen to heer. But it iz ok if you cant get medisin cuz it's ~~den~~ ~~daynju~~ daynjerus an I dont want u to get hert any more daddy cuz I want to see you agin eevin If you cant get medisin. Ant A tels me a story abowt you every nite an Unkl B wont teech me to shoot nothin cuz he sez its youre job an I want to no how to shoot reel bad but I want you to teech me cuz Ant A an Unkl B say yur the best shooter in the waystlan. My hand herts but its not cuz of the blu spots so dont wurry I just dont rite much. I am sory I cant spell I luv you daddy be ~~ker~~ careful AN DONT SWEARl!!!!! LUV DUNCAN_

MacCready reads the note, then reads it again, and again, taking in each carefully scrawled letter of every clumsy word. There are no lines on the paper and the sentences meander up and down in uneven waves. A few words are crossed out, some of them more than once; the letters vary in size and some of them are backward. Duncan printed his name biggest of all, in very careful strokes.

MacCready‘s hands are shaking. He sweeps a thumb across the faded paper and struggles to swallow the lump in his throat, not ready to cry again, knowing it will happen anyway.

_Writing. He can write. He can read and write and he's going to learn to play chess and wants to learn to shoot and the last time I saw him he was still kinda wobbly on his feet and liable to eat dirt._

Oh god, it hurts. He's proud, he's smiling so wide that his cheeks ache, but it hurts, deep in his chest, down beneath the happiness, and he folds the paper and puts it away in the inside pocket above his heart, afraid he might spend the rest of the day reading it over and over if he doesn't stop now. With unsteady hands he pushes his hair back from his forehead, taking a deep breath and trying to hold back more tears.

When the sniffles taper off he sifts through more of the package. There are three more sheets of paper, rolled into tubes and tied with string. He opens these first.

There's a stick figure drawing of a man with a rifle and a scruffy goatee next to a grotesque green blob that MacCready assumes to be a Super Mutant. The position suggests that the stick man has a foot on the Super Mutant's chest, and Duncan's name is in the bottom corner.

"You really were having a good day, kiddo," he murmurs, laughing to himself as he swipes new tears from his scruffy cheeks. 

_Christ, I'm a mess._

There is another drawing that appears to be an illustration of one of Butch's stories: a kid-stick-figure in a mining helmet holds a sign above his head that reads **NO ADULTZ ALOWED** while a girl figure with a blue stick body frowns nearby.

The next page shows the outline of a small pair of hands. 'Duncan MacCready, March 2288' is written between them in Arya's Vault-educated cursive.

MacCready holds it up to the light with his own hand shadowed behind it. There are a few more of these; sometimes he takes them out and looks at them, the way the hands get bigger with each sheet, but he can't bring himself to do that right now. His heart aches enough already.

He folds all the pages with care and tucks them away in his duster, then takes a deep, steadying breath and checks the rest of the box.

There is a plastic container of some candy that Arya makes out of mutfruit, which he has received before and loves. There are two other similar containers, full of something dark and dried; jerky, maybe?

_That's new._

A note sticks out from between the containers, written in neat, unfamiliar print.

> _Arya informed me that you are always nervous when she and Butch leave Duncan in the care of myself and Kieran. I wish she had told me earlier. I won't say that I feel like I know you, but Arya and Butch both speak very highly of you._
> 
> _I'm including a gift of Kieran's special jerky as a gesture of goodwill. Arya tells me they don't have bighorners or nightstalkers on the east coast, so I hope you enjoy a taste of New Vegas. Incidentally it is also the only thing Kieran can cook to save his life (I use the term 'cook' rather loosely)._
> 
> _The one on the left is bighorn jerky, soaked in fire ant nectar and smoked with honey mesquite and dried jalapeño peppers. The one on the right is nightstalker jerky, soaked in tequila and the juices of agaves, prickly pear, and barrel cactus, then smoked with dried xander root and a small amount of white horsenettle._
> 
> _Maybe don't eat too much of that last one at once._
> 
> _Best, Arcade Gannon_

MacCready frowns, one eyebrow arched. "The hell is a nightstalker?"

More curious than apprehensive, he opens the second box. The smell that assaults him is so strong that it borders on caustic, with a jarring fruity note underneath. He wrinkles his nose and closes it in a hurry, moving on to the next one; at least he can imagine what a bighorner might look like.

An unfamiliar, spicy sort of smell hits him, hot enough to make his eyes water, and he decides that neither of these are something he wants to put in his stomach this early in the morning after a night of drinking Dirty Wastelanders.

_Unless I find somebody to yank out these back teeth sometime soon I'm not gonna be eating anything like this anyway._

He hangs on to the note just in case; he doesn't want to get these mixed up.

There are two comics he has never heard of, apparently gifts from Kieran. There are also several bottles of gun oil, a box of the tiny hard-to-find screws he sometimes needs for his rifle, and ten packs of RadAway, which he is terrible about remembering to keep on him.

MacCready gazes down at all these little gifts and closes his eyes.

_Why does this hurt?_

That they should care for Duncan makes sense. Duncan is a child, a sick child, and even in the Wasteland it takes a special kind of heartlessness to be unmoved by a child in pain.

But him?

MacCready cannot, for the life of him, understand why they care about him. He hasn't been able to protect a single person he has cared for since leaving Little Lamplight all those years ago. Hell, he can't even tell the people he cares for the truth. Lucy had gone to her gruesome grave believing him to be a soldier, and Arya still has no idea he spent much of his time in the Commonwealth running with a gang that amounts to little more than well-disciplined Raiders. For years now he has done nothing but take from them: taking what they send him, taking advantage of how much they love Duncan, even taking these two men he's never met - Arya's friend Kieran and his husband Arcade - from their lives on the opposite side of the country, a dangerous trek they make twice a year because the medication Arcade created requires ingredients only found in the Mojave.

The Wasteland is dangerous enough without worrying over a sick child, and yet that is what Arya, Butch, Kieran, and Arcade do every day, what they do for him. And what does he have to show for that after three years? Nothing. Nothing except a body count, a slew of scars, and the ire of one of the most dangerous factions in the Commonwealth.

 _Snap out of it,_ he thinks, putting everything away and pushing the box beneath his bed. _It's not supposed to be this bad anymore, so snap out of it!_

MacCready sinks back onto his bed, unable to stop the familiar rising tide of apathy that had begun as soon as he opened his eyes. It's true it isn't supposed to be this bad; most of the time it isn't, but today is an exception. He crawls back into bed, hiding his face from the sun and trying not to think too hard about how easy it would be to let the Gunners have their way.


End file.
